New York, New York
by Galae
Summary: Harry in New York . . . great idea, right? Harry with Snape . . . recipe for disaster. Slash; HP/SS
1. Departures, left

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Necessary Digress: 

Wow, it's been a while since I wrote a fanfic. That's what learning about alkanes and binary searches and momenta does to you.

Ah, I think I've officially lost my mind. A Snape/Harry fic? Yes. I've gone over to the dark side.

This fanfiction piece is dedicated to all the readers. And all the authors on _Walking the Plank_, because they are the ones who addicted me to HP/SS in the first place (particularly Telanu).

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Preamble:

Harry in New York . . . great idea, right? Harry with Snape . . . recipe for disaster.

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Note: 

Sort of like a songfic, but not really. The italicized lyrics are courtesy of Frank Sinatra, in case anyone's been living under a rock. 

****

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New York, New York

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by Galae

It wasn't very often that Dumbledore called everyone together in the middle of the day. But that day he did.

He looked very amused. Harry had long decided that that was Dumbledore's expression when he was excited. The headmaster was far too astute to look thrilled. That was an expression reserved for the lesser learned.

Even all the teachers were talking animatedly amongst themselves. Well, not _all_ the teachers. Snape was still staring straight ahead of him, face as stony and impassive as could possibly be. But then and again, Harry reflected, the difference between a (nearly extinct) smile and a (common) frown on Snape's face must be a hair-thin line.

"I can be sure that all of you are wondering why I have called for such an assembly," Dumbledore said. "The truth is that I have very exciting news for you. I have just received the news that several of our students have been chosen for the Atlantic Exchange."

The majority of the students began talking enthusiastically, but those who grew up with Muggles, like Harry, were befuddled as to what the interest is about.

"The Atlantic Exchange!" Ron said, grinning from ear to ear. "I've been waiting for it ever since Bill went in his fifth year . . . Oh, Harry, you don't know what it is, do you? Well, basically it's a program in which kids from Hogwarts and the other wizarding schools in Europe get to go to North America, and those kids get to come here. But only for two weeks, of course."

Just as Harry was about to reply, Dumbledore tapped for silence. 

"As you know, the Atlantic Exchange is a very prestigious program. Only thirty students from all Europe are selected to participate. This year, we are privileged to have twelve students chosen to go. These twelve students have been picked based on their academics, accomplishments, character, leadership and integrity in the face of difficulty. Each of the following twelve will be accompanied by a teacher as they go to their designated city. While the twelve are touring North America, Hogwarts would host twelve students and _their _teachers."

The Great Hall hummed with anticipation.

"Now, I will not delay the announcements any further. Here are the twenty-four students and teachers selected to go to North America . . ." Dumbledore carefully pushed up his half-moon spectacles as he began to read.

"Marty Ammiller and Professor Flitwick. Boston, Massachusetts, USA."

There was loud applause for Marty, a fourth-year who was said to have extraordinary talent in Charms.

"Justin Finch-Fletchley and Professor Lupin. Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada."

Harry applauded. He looked at Justin and for a moment they locked eyes. Justin smirked a little and mouthed, "You're next!" Harry laughed and shook his head. "Git," he mouthed back. Justin was looking wonderfully good, as usual, and Harry was surprised that his heart still gave a little thump, even after all this time. As much as Harry wanted to go, he knew that he didn't have much of a chance. For one, the students were judged on their academics. Because of an injury courtesy of Lord Voldemort, Harry had spent seven months of his sixth year in the infirmary and thus nearly failed all of his exams.

"Hermione Granger and Professor McGonagall. Montréal, Québec, Canada."

"Oh, lucky, lucky," Ron said enviously.

"Ronald Weasley and Professor Hackley. Ah . . . um . . . Low's—Low's Angels, California . . . oh, dear. Professor McGonagall had just kindly informed me of the right pronunciation of the city. _Los Angeles_, California, USA."

"Oh my God," Ron whispered. "Oh my God. I'm going. I'm _going_!"

"Good job!" Harry said as they exchanged high-fives. He could swear that Ron have never looked so happy. 

The names dragged on. As glad as Harry was for Ron, he couldn't help feeling a little envious of him and Hermione. North America! Two weeks! What fun that must be! In another wizarding school, surrounded by new people . . . oh, how Harry wished that he could go.

Ninth. Tenth. Eleventh. With each name Harry's spirits sank. It was only when Matilda Armstrong's name was called that Harry realized he had been carrying a little hope that he would be chosen too. But no. He would be staying here, in Hogwarts. The Exchange was for people like Hermione and Justin.

"And I'm proud to announce our last pair . . . Harry James Potter and Professor Snape. New York City, New York, USA."

Harry was speechless. He felt like he could float up to heaven at that exact moment. He was chosen. For the Atlantic Exchange. _He_ had been chosen. 

Then a frosty voice broke into his reverie. "_Excuse _me, sir . . . but I cannot go on such a trip with _him._"

Harry stared at Snape, whose glare almost turned him into ice.

Indeed, he was not the only one to be surprised. A hush fell over the congratulatory student body. Yes, they knew that Snape disliked the Gryffindors. Yes, they knew he hated Harry. But never, _never_, could a teacher declare that hate so blatantly in front of Dumbledore.

They all waited to see what Dumbledore would do.

Dumbledore smiled and set down the letter in front of him. "Professor Snape, being chosen for the Atlantic Exchange is a _highly_ impressive honor. I trust that you understand that?"

For a minute Snape's mask fell. But immediately it was snatched up again. "Fine, then." He said, lips pursed into a thin line. "I will accompany Potter on the trip."

"Thank you, Severus. Your cooperation is much appreciated. Now . . . let's feast!"

~ *~*~* ~

"_Honestly_, I don't know what that man's problem is," Ron said as he plopped onto his bed. "I guess there's thorns on every rosebush."

"Out of all the teachers, why am I stuck with the one that hates me like crazy?" Harry groaned. "Why can _I _have Professor Sprout or McGonagall or someone like that? He's going to make my whole trip miserable, I could just tell."

"Well, Harry, in case you haven't noticed, all the girls are paired with women teachers, and the boys with the men," Ron pointed out.

"Why do they do that?"

"Uh . . . they kind of have this weird notion that with a teacher and a student of the same sex nothing—er—_inappropriate_ will happen," Ron snickered. He looked at Harry and they both burst into laughter.

It had taken a few years for Harry to discover his sexuality. Ron had been the first one he told, and everything else just fell into place after that. Thanks to being in a few compromising situations, Harry's preference for boys was—and still is—well-known to the entire school. But one thing was sure good about fighting Voldemort all these years—nobody had dared to make a second remark about it, not even Malfoy.

"Oh, so _that's_ it," Harry said aloud. "That's why they paired me with Snape. Because nothing 'inappropriate' could possibly happen between us. Now aren't I the slut. What does Dumbledore think I'd do, put a Seduction Charm on Flitwick? Just because I'm gay doesn't mean that I'm screwing everybody I can. God. An now I'm stuck with Snape for two weeks."

"Relax," said Ron. "I heard that New York has a lot of people. Maybe you could do us all a favor and lose him in there."

~ *~*~* ~

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"Start spreadin' the news

I'm leaving today . . ."

"It looks like a very ugly bird," Snape commented. "Are you it won't fall out of the sky and kill us all?" 

"Relax, Severus, it is perfectly safe. Why, Muggles ride on them all the time," Dumbledore said, conciliatory.

"Well, that's not saying much. Look at the way they dress," Snape replied snidely. "Now, don't you roll your eyes at me, Potter. You're none too fond of these shoes yourself."

"True," Harry admitted valiantly.

"Dumbledore, are you sure we can't Apparate?" Snape asked. 

"Positive," Dumbledore said. "We don't know much about this city, remember. It's too much of a risk. Could you imagine the bedlam you'd cause if you suddenly appear out of nowhere?"

"They'd be too busy tripping over one another to notice," Snape grumbled. "Look at them! You'd think that it would be the end of the world if they don't make that prane on time."

"Plane," Harry corrected without thinking.  
"Thank _you_, Mr. Potter, but I believe _I'm_ the teacher here."

Harry sighed. 

Damn it, thought Snape. Out of all the students he could have been stuck with, they choose Potter for him. He glowered at the boy, perfectly calm in the midst of such mayhem. Damn him to hell.

"_British Airways Flight 473, from London to New York City will be taking off in thirty minutes. Will all passengers please start boarding at this time. Thank you._"

"That's us!" Harry said, looking as happy as a drunk in a bar. 

"Good luck, and as the Muggles say, _bon voyage_," said Dumbledore. 

"Dumbledore . . ." Snape began.

"Severus, you will have a fine time in New York," Dumbledore said for the umpteenth time. He held out a package. "Lemon drops?"

~ *~*~* ~

"_I want to be part of it_

New York, New York . . ."

It was certainly a strange trip. For one thing, Harry had never been on an airplane before. For another, he's never sat for seven hours with Snape on one side.

But even Snape seemed relatively subdued on a plane. At take-off he had been gripping the arms of his chair and paying extraordinary attention to the flight attendants' safety procedures. But by the third hour he had become fairly relaxed—well, as close to relaxed as Snape could possibly get. 

"Funny how they manage without brooms," he muttered. "Of course, this isn't quite as convenient . . . but all right for them."

"Oh, Professor Snape, is that a kind word I hear?" Harry said, smiling.

"Kindly shut your mouth, Potter. I guess now is as good a time as any to tell you what I expect from you on this trip. First of all, there will be no foolishness whatsoever. No running around, no tricks, no trying to get me lost. Remember, I am doing you a large favor by accompanying you. I am fully authorized to bring you back to Hogwarts should anything happen. Do you hear?"

"Yes," Harry mumbled, going through all the things that fit into Snape's very broad definition of "foolishness." _Well, I guess that means no shagging for another two weeks._

"What would you like, sir? We have Coca-Cola, Sprite, Orangina, Perrier . . ." The flight attendant gestured towards the tray of drinks.

Snape squinted. "What is that vile solution over there?"

Harry choked back a laugh as the poor flight attendant faltered. "There, sir? Oh, that is root beer."

Snape shuddered. "I'll just have water, thank you."

"And you?" she said, looking at Harry.

"Oh, I'll have a Coke."

Accepting his drink, Harry leaned over and said through his teeth, "Professor Snape, you must start acting halfway civilized."

"You are hardly the one to talk, Potter," Snape sneered.

"Well, we wouldn't want to attract attention to ourselves now, would we?" Harry said sweetly.

Snape harrumphed. "How could we _not _attract attention in these filthy clothes we're wearing? I can't even wear a decent robe."

"Well, actually, in case you haven't noticed, wearing a robe would probably get you arrested," Harry hissed. "We're going into a Muggle world, Professor, and I seriously think that you should at least try not to complain so much."

"I'm not complaining. I'm expressing my clothing preferences."

"You don't look half bad in them, so be quiet, won't you?" Harry said. 

That statement was so surprising that it made the both of them shut up for an hour.

~ *~*~* ~

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"Please pack up my shoes

I'm longing to stray"

Harry admitted to himself that he wished Snape had been allowed to wear the robes. Out of robes and in Muggle clothes, he looked almost . . . real. That thought scared him.

After the flight they've managed to find their way out of the airport with their carry-ons. They were definitely traveling light. People struggling with carts looked at them enviously as they grabbed their insubstantial canvas bags. The Weightless Charm had its uses.

They breezed through the customs, which Harry had been worried about. He had his documents, but he didn't know about Snape. For one thing, Snape was wizard-born—Harry didn't even think that he had passport. But he took it out smoothly and handed it to the customs official.

"Severus Snape . . . whew, that's quite a name, mister! And is this your son?"

"No, this . . . _boy_ has no relationship to me whatsoever and I am duly proud of it," Snape snapped. "He is my student."

The official raised his eyebrows and took Harry's passport.

"Hmm. And what are you planning to do in the United States?"

"We're on an exchange program," Harry spoke, not trusting Snape. "We'll be staying for about two weeks."

"Bringin' anything in?"

"Just our bags."

The official nodded. "Put them through on there, please."

"And what is that detestable-looking machine?"

"To see the contents of your bags with, naturally."

"Why?" Snape demanded. "Isn't there an act you Mu—Americans have about privacy?"

"Sir, we have to check for foods, firearms, and other things," the official explained, a bit exasperated. "It's the law. We don't want the mad-cow disease over here."

"Well," Snape said huffily, "I suppose so then."

Admittedly, it had all gone very smoothly. The bags passed through remarkably without fuss, although Harry did hear the official say something about titanium. Until . . .

"Sir, may I ask what is in here?" the customs official asked. "It is black and large, and circular in shape."

"Oh," Snape said, lip curling. "That would be my cauldron."

"A cauldron, sir?"

Snape sneered. "A most delightful historic artifact, of course, from the Middle Ages. You see, _sir_, your country's stupid paranoia allows you to see everything as extraordinary. It is a gift, of course. For the school we would be visiting."

"Well, then, that explains it!" said the official, unfazed and grinning. "You're free to go. Bye, and have a nice stay in the US of A!"

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

Is Snape going to fall off the Empire State Building? Is Harry going to survive the two weeks? Come back next week to find out!

No, seriously, I'm going to finish this story.

I've actually done it already. I just need to carve it up and then put it into chapters.

Please REVIEW. I've spent a lot of time writing this, and I love it. 


	2. Beautiful places

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Pratter:

Something was amiss when I saw my ff.net account today. I got more than one review for the first chapter.

I am absolutely overwhelmed by the positive response to this story. I thought that I was the only one who would like it! Thank you to _everyone_ who read and reviewed. 

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Note:

Some of the places I will be mentioning in this story are fictional, but many are real. I have visited New York City a year ago, so I expect that many things have changed. If you see something that is not quite factual, feel free to contact me.

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New York, New York

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by Galae

"Oh great gods," Snape proclaimed. "Voldemort must have assigned us to this hellhole."

"C'mon, Professor, it's not all that bad," Harry said. He looked infuriatingly optimistic in the midst of all the chaos they called New York City. 

"Bad!" Snape looked like he just swallowed a mouthful of acid. "Potter, your lack of vocabulary fails to term this place as nothing other than 'execrable.'"

"Professor . . ."

"Now, where is that stupid place we're staying at?"

"It's called the Waldorf-Astoria, Professor."

"The Walrus-what?"

"Waldorf-Astoria. It's a hotel."

"And where in Merlin's great name is that?"

Harry consulted the map. "301 Park Avenue. It's in Manhattan. So we should take a taxi."

"A what?"

"Taxi. It's what they call these cars." Harry flicked a finger at the yellow Crown Victorias streaming by.

"Oh, I see," Snape sneered. "They have such a poor feeling for conciseness they need eighteen different names for one thing. No wonder Muggles never get anything done. They're too busy trying to figure out what they're talking about to do anything."

"Sir . . . They _do _need another name for these. Taxis are cars that you have to pay to ride on. As opposed to normal cars that you just pay to fix." At Snape's arched eyebrows, he stopped talking. Instead, Harry held up a hand to hail a taxi.

It was then that Harry noticed Snape had a nervous habit. It wasn't very apparent to him at the beginning, but Snape did it every half an hour. He would reach in his pocket and grasp something small and silver, and then put it back. It was as if Snape lived in fear of losing it.

They actually made it to the Waldorf-Astoria without any great mishap. Well, Snape did try to place a curse on the driver, but Harry wrenched him away before he could get to his wand. 

"Professor!"

"That man was trying to cheat us!"

"What happened to no magic in the Muggle world?"

"He would have deserved it," Snape muttered. Being in a crowded foreign city with Potter by his side and no dungeon around is not the way to be logical.

The Waldorf-Astoria was a remarkably beautiful hotel. Harry, who had seen it many times in movies, walked inside with relative ease. Snape, who had never set foot in a Muggle hotel in his life and had never wanted to, tried to set a charm on the revolving door. Thankfully, Harry had confiscated his wand.

"Give it back," he hissed. He felt like a walking target without it.

"Not until you're sane enough not to do anything suicidal," Harry muttered back. "Just follow the door. It's not _that_ hard."

No, not really. Once Snape realized that he didn't want his legs amputated, it was easy work.

They signed in, received two electronic keys, got to their room and found . . .

There was only one bed.

"Damn Albus!" Snape exploded. "I suppose arranging a decent Muggle room for the teacher he _coerced_ into going is too much for _his_ addled brain."

"We'll got a cot," Harry said coaxingly. He called housekeeping and was informed that one would cost fifteen dollars per night and, due to the hour, they would only be able to get one the next morning. Harry repeated the information to Snape, who looked like he's going to be fed to Aragog.

"It's just one night." Stony glare. "Professor, do you think I'm any more pleased about this than you are?" 

"What time is it?" Snape finally asked.

"It's eight, New York time. That's one in the morning, London time." Harry answered. He was tired. Jet lag was kicking in, major time, and reminded him that he hadn't had any sleep for about twenty hours.

"I guess we'll go to bed, then," Snape said, a little awkwardly. "Potter, I am correct in my assumption that you brought clean bedclothes?"

Fifteen minutes later, Harry was sitting in the (very large, admittedly) bed, reading an American magazine. Even though the article was very absorbing, he looked up as the bathroom door opened and Snape emerged.

He didn't know what he was expecting. Maybe a heavy black woolen robe or something similar to what Snape wore everyday to class. But definitely not this. Snape was in a robe, yes, but it wasn't quite as long and it was a very dark green in color. It was cotton, not wool. And even Harry had to admit that he looked . . . human.

It was a very scary thought.

He licked his lips unconsciously. And then another scarier thought hit him. This was what Snape looked like, going to bed everyday. And Harry was staring at him like he's expecting him to Apparate at any minute. He didn't realize this until Snape's upper lip curled a little and he sneered:

"Are you done staring, Potter, or have I transfigured into a museum exhibit?"

"So-sorry," Harry stammered, forcing his eyes back to the magazine.

But his attention refused to stay. He was _very_ well aware of the fact that Snape had crossed the room, and that the bed was shifting. A weight settled in next to him. In all his seventeen years, Harry had never felt anything like that. Someone climbing in bed with him.

Nonononono. That was _definitely_ a _very, very bad thought_.

He's a teacher, his mind thought frantically. Just a teacher doing his duty. It's not like you were in Hogwarts or anything. You're in New York. Right. This is a trip, just a trip, and Snape is _not_ doing this voluntarily.

Then why was his skin tingling?

"Good night, Potter."

What? Oh. "Good night—Professor."

Harry went to sleep.

~*~*~

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"Right through the very heart of it

New York, New York"

When Harry woke up the next morning, Snape had already eaten. Harry brushed his teeth, and went on the telephone to order his breakfast. And the cot.

Although. Last night wasn't _so_ bad. He and Snape largely kept to themselves (thankfully), although there was this one awkward moment when they both woke up and climbed off to go to the bathroom. Snape had muttered something like, "Go ahead" and Harry had to stumble out of the room.

But the man was dressed at seven o'clock in the morning, wearing another set of Muggle clothes. When Harry entered the front room, he stared at him a little, then took his eyes away. He was definitely _not_ going to get used to this.

They didn't explore New York that day. Dumbledore set that for the second week. Instead, Harry and Snape went to The Chandle School of Magic. 

It was set about an hour north from New York. As directed, they boarded the Chandle Train, their version of the Hogwarts Express. Instead of the King's Cross, the station was one of New York's many subway stations (it was 33rd Street, which was a stop on the New Jersey-New York subway system). Instead of the barrier, there was a wall, and since so many people flurried back and forth their exit was not noticed.

The Chandle School was not a castle. In fact, it was a huge limestone building designed in the Grecian style, with Corinthian columns on a huge portico and a massive dome. Inside, there wasn't any of Hogwart's comfortable brick, but wallpapered and painted walls. It was certainly impressive. But it was definitely American.

The headmaster of Chandle was Mr. George Ekleson. Harry didn't know what he was expecting, but it wasn't that.

The Chandle School put a lot more emphasis on fitting in with Muggles. That made sense, since most of its graduates will be working outside in their world. Their uniforms were just slacks and shirts. Girls were not required to wear skirts, because the Chandle trustees believed that to be gender discrimination. In addition to Charms, Potions, DADA, Herbology and all the basic Hogwarts subjects, Chandle students were required to take Muggle Studies. Passing by a group of fifth-years, Harry would hear them debating the merits of Dwight Eisenhower.

Snape fared all right, despite his firm belief that all the Americanism would swallow him alive. Ekleson thought that he was humorous, a belief that made Harry laugh and Snape choke. 

So their first day went by without major accidents. On the second day, Harry "shadowed" a Chandle student and Snape helped teach Potions. Harry impressed them all with his disarming skills, and the teachers seemed to like him. But something felt amiss until he stepped into Potions and saw Snape standing there, one elbow on the teacher's desk, looking like he already belonged in that classroom. It seemed that strangers did nothing to curb Snape's tongue. There was a lot of dressing down that particular day.

But all the students liked him. It was a weird sensation, to hear that the rest of his classmates appreciated Snape. Maybe it's the fact that Snape had no House loyalties in Chandle (Chandle had no Houses, period), or maybe it's the fact that Americans were more used to Potions, but they all thought that Snape was really funny. Go figure.

Third day. That day, Harry and Snape performed their usual banter for the entire Potions class without even realizing it, until the students applauded them. 

The girls sitting behind Harry were . . . well. They were certainly paying attention, though not to the class. Harry nearly chopped off his own finger when one of them said, "Gret thinks that both of them are just so cute. Well, Harry Potter's just adorable, but Severus is like, a man. He _is_ gorgeous, isn't he?"

"That man just reeks of sex," said the other girl, giggling. "Wonder if he's got a girlfriend? He definitely isn't the marrying type."

That was when Harry's cauldron blew up and endeared him to the rest of the Chandle students forever. 

Fourth day. Snape was rapidly becoming one of the most popular teachers in the school. Snape dealt with this unknown situation by becoming more scathing than ever. He forced one of the students, a burly, sour-looking boy, to take his own potion since he was goofing off the entire class. The boy turned into a Cornish pixie with Mandrake leaves sprouting out of his head. Mark, the boy Harry was shadowing, asked him if Snape ever thought about becoming a comedian. "I'm thinkin', like, Chris Rock. He'd be _sooo_ good hosting the Grammys or somethin'. Wait 'til I tell Mom what he said to Dexter! He's just like that guy on _American Idol_—Simon Cowell.I think that Ekleson's going to try to recruit him here . . ."

Harry said something not very generous, but secretly he felt—a little proud? That was definitely weird.

Fifth day. The Chandle School got up a feast in honor of Harry and Snape. Apparently Mark wasn't the only one with enough lunacy to suggest Snape should be a comedian. One of the fourth-years actually slipped him a piece of paper with the phone number of his uncle, a Hollywood agent, telling him to give it to Snape if he ever needed a job. Harry snorted but kept the paper anyways. Ekleson made a nice little speech about how much Harry and Snape contributed to Chandle. Harry-and-Snape. It was almost like a single noun now, in Chandle. Harry would have laughed had it not been so disturbing.

~*~*~

Sixth and last day at Chandle. Harry watched the American form of Quidditch. Except, theirs was more like a form of cricket and there was a _lot_ more hurtling balls and smashing brooms. Oh, yes, and their bats were a lot bigger too, and every player carried one. That might be because there were five Bludgers out. Harry wondered how a sane Seeker could catch the Snitch with one hand on the broom and the other on his bat. But it turned out that the bat was able to push out a net-like device. The results stood at 240 points for the winning team, 210 for the losing, five injuries, and two broken brooms. The Dream Team won.

That night, they went back to the hotel, utterly exhausted. Harry plopped down on the sofa and turned on the television set. Amazingly, Snape sat down next to him. Neither said anything for fifteen minutes, even though the program was as boring as a class with Binns.

"So," Snape said, voice cool. He waved his hand at the black object in front of him. "What do they call this . . . archaic device?"

"It's a telly," answered Harry softly.

"It is like a picture. A wizarding picture, that is." Snape said. There was something about that artificial, solitary darkness that made him quiet. "And what would they call these miniature programs that are bloody boring?"

"Ads, Professor."

"And why the hell is that woman doing outside in the woods at midnight? Does she want to get killed?"

"It's a late-night movie, Professor. These aren't really made with quality in mind."

"Oh."

He said nothing more. Harry turned and stared at him. With a slip of the weak city moonlight wavering into the room, his professor's head was framed in a perfect silhouette. It was a strong profile, he thought idly, staring at the man. An intelligent eye, a firm eyebrow, a hardened nose whose slope gave way to a pair of lips as stiff as if they were carved from stone. In a flash of insanity, Harry wondered what Snape would have looked like before—all that. The thought was so strange that Harry quickly turned away and watched the television dumbly.

Of course, Harry was no longer young. He was at the age when he was able to realize that adults, too, carried lives of their own. That they were young, once—that they were teenagers. But it was hard to imagine Snape being anything but the cold, sneering man he was, dressing him down everyday. Was he once young? Harry pondered. After what he heard in Potions class that day—gosh, did Snape ever have a girlfriend? It was difficult, to say the least, to imagine his greasy old Potions Master arm-in-arm with a girl. Even more so to think of him kissing anybody, or doing anything beyond that.

Oh, Harry knew that Snape was not prudish. Death Eaters did . . . things. Snape must know of sex and stuff. But still, Harry could imagine Snape shagging anyone. It was just too scary.

"Potter. Are you listening to me?"

"I'm sorry?" Harry shook himself out of his thoughts. 

"My, my, what have we been thinking of that could possibly make the great Harry Potter blush?" Snape said mockingly, thin lips twisted into some resemblance of a smile. "Was it some dark lusty thoughts about the various prostitutes lurking around this blasted city?"

"Oh, no, Professor," Harry said sweetly. "I am not _desperate_."

"Are you implying something, Potter?"

"Not at all."

"In that case, I still suggest that you keep your thoughts to yourself."

"I am not the one that wanted to know," Harry replied. Even to himself the old banter seemed worn, and it sounded more like a obstructive wall than real emotion.

Wall . . . what could he possibly be hiding? What happened to all his hatred of Snape? Immediately, he panicked. Harry searched inside himself for something—something to guarantee that it was still the same. Think, he reprimanded himself. Think of Snape making fun of Neville. Of him taking off fifty points from Gryffindor. Of him making fun of Harry endlessly in front of Draco and all the Slytherins.

But it was gone, for good. The deep loathing he had started out this trip with was now replaced by a deeper, calmer sense of serenity. He didn't hate Snape anymore. It was as simple as that. Somewhere, in the course of the last week, Harry had come to respect Severus Snape.

It was a chilling thought.

"Professor . . ."

"If you have something to say, Potter, I suggest you spit it out."

"I . . ."

"What is it, Potter?"

Harry sighed. "I've just had a thought."

"Happy happy joy joy," Snape sneered. "Shall I send you a card to commemorate the occasion?"

"Admit it, Professor. You could have come up with a better retort than that," Harry said, leaning back to stare at him.

"Excuse me, Potter?"

"A week ago," Harry stated. "You would have just tore my ears off. But you've lost it, Snape. Admit it. You've gone _mellow_."

"I have not."

"See? Before, you would have added that I was the stupidest person alive, with the possible exception of Neville." Harry pointed out triumphantly.

"So my tongue no longer feels the need to exercise so much. Does that bother you, Potter?" Snape said, eyes boring into him.

Tongue. Exercise. Gods! Out of the gutter! Now! "No-o," Harry stammered, despite his wishes to speak otherwise. "It's nicer. Actually. We've both loosened our standards, haven't we? I like it better this way," he admitted. "It is easier to think of each other as less of a git."

"Perhaps for you," said Snape frostily.

Short days ago, that would have peeved him for hours on end. But now, Harry simply smiled. "Confess, Professor. You've grown fond of me."

"Why don't you go for a swim in Lake Me, Potter," Snape scoffed. He fished out the mysterious silver thing again, and then pushed it back into his pocket without Harry even seeing that it was. "'Fond' is entirely too absurd a word. I tolerate you, yes, but don't push your luck. As you see—"

"Professor," said Harry evenly, "have you ever had a girlfriend?"

"—I—what?"

"Have you ever had a girlfriend?"

"A girlfriend?"

"Yes." Harry scooted over so that Snape could see him mouth every word. "Girl. Friend. You know. A girl you take out on dates. A girl you kiss. And shag."

"I assure you that my personal life is none of your business, Potter!" 

"So you haven't had one?"

"What makes you so sure?" Snape mocked. "Of course, only the great Harry Potter could have girls hanging all over him. Well, I am sorry to burst that bubble of egotism, Potter, but when I was in Hogwarts as a student, I have stolen girls from your sainted godfather. Three, as a matter of a fact."

Harry simply sat there, gaping at him.

"Of course, Black never told you that, now, had he? How typical of the bastard. Nobody ever shows up Sirius Black. He was the god of Gryffindor. He was the great one. His blasted self-centeredness almost matches yours, Potter, but not quite." Snape gave a barking laugh. "Of course, Felicia was such a pretty girl. And so vulnerable when she's mad. Sailed right into my arms, she did, and your godfather hated me ever since."

"I don't believe it."

"That's your decision," Snape smirked. Those three works just said everything.

Harry gazed at him. It was almost the closest thing he's ever seen to a smile on Snape's face. He liked it. He also realized that Snape's eyes were softening, no longer the dark, intense stare that frightened him so much for the last seven or eight years. 

"Do you find anything fascinating, Potter?" Snape asked, with only a hint of disparagement.

"Yes."

"Hmm. Well, it is either me or something behind me. Might it be the lovely curtains?"

"They're not lovely and you know it."

Snape's eyes intensified at Harry's fierce tone. "What are you saying, Potter?" he asked quietly.

Harry stared at him back. But then he smiled softly. "You're not . . . half as boring as I thought you were."

He didn't know what it was. It might have been the soft moonlight filtering in the windows, or the fact that he suddenly realized he didn't hate Snape anymore—if he ever did, or maybe it was just that he was sitting in a hotel room, on a sofa, watching a bad late-night movie with him and actually hearing, for once, that he had a past and a personality.

But whatever it was, Harry reached up and touched him. 

It was just a soft caress, fingers grazing the skin idly, dreamily, as he tucked that loose strand of hair back in its place. Snape's eyes widened. Truth be told, Harry didn't even know what he was doing until . . .

"Potter. What are you doing?"

"Ah—I—"

He bolted.

The first thought that Snape had was that Harry had gone extraordinarily nuts. Maybe he had snuck some kind of a drink while watching the movie. And the second thought was that Harry's finger was also extraordinarily soft.

Snape nearly slapped himself. Of course. He had seen. That's why Harry ran. Who'd want to touch their greasy bastard of a Potions teacher . . . and see that he didn't leap to the other side of the room?

Oh Merlin oh Merlin oh Merlin. This was _not_ good. He was not having thoughts about Harry Potter. He was _not_. Because of all the things Severus Snape was, he was not a sick git of a man having a relationship with a boy half his age.

Harry was curled up on the bed. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. He was hard and wanting and he felt like he had just been dumped in a roller coaster for fourteen hours. Was he totally out of his mind? The last fifteen minutes kept on replaying themselves over and over in blurred slow motion. Guiltily, Harry tried to remember every aspect of it—the way his hand reached up, just like that, the warmth of Snape's skin under his fingers, the way his eyes widened . . .

And then nothing. 

Oh no. He was _not_ getting hard thinking about Snape. Harry moaned quietly as he fought that urgent arousal with difficulty. There was no way that he could jerk off now. No. Then Sna—he would be in serious trouble. 

The door . . . bloody hell. Harry simply lay there, hoping that Snape would have enough sense not to come in. He didn't come. And Harry sighed and struggled to sleep.

But somewhere, in the cavern of his mind, he asked himself whether he was relieved or disappointed that Snape did not open the door.

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Complexities compound the horizon. One week had passed. What of the next?

I have to apologize for all the various places I snitched phrases from. Including _Full Frontal, Confirmed Bachelor_ and_ Anne of Green Gables_.

Please review. I don't get paid for spending twenty hours writing this, all my gratification comes from your commentary.


	3. A city like no other

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More Ramblings:

I love you all.

You, the reader, are a part of the most amazing people in the world. I worship your feet. Thank you SO MUCH for everything. All the praise, all the commentary—just amazing. Thank you so much. For example, LegacyLady, gosh, your enthusiasm just blows me away! 

Thanks also to Mystical Witch for pointing out that the Waldorf-Astoria might have been wrong. I really don't know; I don't live in New York. I checked up the hotel website though, and the name seemed intact. Could anyone clear this up for me? And as for the time zones, well. My computer says that London is five hours ahead, and so does Ask Jeeves, but I think I failed to take Daylight Savings into account. ::sighs::

Welcome to the third chapter. Please write down a review as you leave through the "Back" button.

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****

New York, New York

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by Galae

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"I want to wake up

In a city that doesn't sleep"

The next morning was awkward. They both didn't get enough sleep. Harry knew that he had bags under his eyes, and was only slightly mollified to see that Snape did too.

Snape downed the coffee black. Harry simply stirred the milk in his bowl, trying to look like he's actually doing something with it. A bird was singing outside. Dammit. Since when did birds sing in this accursed city?

Snape was seriously growing on him.

"Um." Harry cleared his throat. "Professor?"

Snape looked at him. "Yes?"

Harry swallowed. That wasn't so bad. At least he said something. So he wasn't ready to kill him or anything like that. "Um. Look, Professor, about last night . . ."

"I understand, Potter," Snape cut him off immediately. His timing was almost uncanny. "You were tired. It was a long day. You weren't thinking. No need to apologize, it happens to all of us. Even the celebrities."

Harry seriously believed that Snape added that last one just to spite him. Well, he thought, at least he's back, whoever "he" is.

"But. I'm, just. I'm sorry."

Snape looked at him. Of course. Head hung down in shame. Of course he was sorry. Potter looked like he expected to get a disease.

"No need to look . . . like that," Snape amended. He shook his head and continued in his blandest, most matter-of-fact voice. "We have lots to do today. Get a move on, Potter."

Harry got up, almost reluctantly, and followed Snape out of the hotel. 

"So," Snape said, sneering. "This is the first day on Dumbledore's sadistic tour. I expect that you will behave yourself at all times, Potter."

"I will," said Harry, who, at the moment, probably would have obeyed if Snape told him to jump off the Empire State.

Snape slid him a humanly surprised glance, but then he was back again. Stony Snape and . . . Not-So-Stony Snape. Harry decided that he was going to spend the last week of his trip trying to figure out how to bring Jekyll back more often.

The Statue of Liberty was fine. It was a little long, climbing the millions of stairs packed with Muggles. Harry tried not to laugh at Snape's face as he struggled to retain some politeness and not indiscretion. 

"Where're y'all from?" asked the Park Ranger on the bottom of the winding stairwell. 

"Switzerland," said the two women standing in front of Harry. The man behind Snape let out of string of foreign abuse. "And he is from Germany."

"England," Harry said promptly. 

"Ah, England. I'm going to London, actually, this fall."

The Swiss women kept on trying to talk to Snape and blinking very rapidly while doing it. Harry was going to ask if they've got something in their eye until he realized—oh. Okay. They were making eyes at Snape.

Harry thought that he was going to throw up. Is it something in the American air? How else can he explain the fact that every woman in the US seem to think that Snape was attractive?

After enjoying the view on the top of the Statue (or rather, in the case of Snape, "conjuring up a dire headache from the ceaselessly jabbering Americans"), Harry checked Dumbledore's list. "Ellis Island. Come on, Professor." When Snape didn't move, Harry sighed and grabbed his wrist, dragging him unceremoniously to the ferry.

As soon as they got on the ferry, Harry stared at his hand for a minute. Yeah. His hand, which was currently wrapped around Severus Snape's thin wrist like a vine around a tree. Snape reacted faster. He shook off Harry's fingers with usual grace.

"Sorry," Harry muttered, snatching back his traitorous hand.

Snape said nothing, only shot Harry a look that plainly said he would not care to do that again unless he wished for a painful death. He put his hand in his pocket again, grasping that small, elusive object. Harry had gotten used to it by now.

Ellis Island was kind of boring for two English citizens who had no connection to America whatsoever. At three, they were back in Manhattan.

What to do in Manhattan at three o'clock in the afternoon? 

"Professor," said Harry, rather timidly. "I was just wondering . . . do you care if we hang around here for a few hours? I kind of want to buy some . . . stuff. For my friends."

Snape sent him a withering glare, but Harry stood his ground. "It is far too unfortunate that I have to look after you this entire trip. I should not be forced to go along because your mind is pickled with nonsense."

"Professor, don't you think it is wise if we buy Dumbledore a little something? After all, that way we can warm him up before we tell him that you turned a boy into a Cornish pixie."

Snape paled. "Damn you, Potter!"

"Great!" said Harry brightly. "Let's go to Macy's first!"

Snape cursed himself and wondered if Harry had planned this all along.

Going from street to street and store to store with a very unappreciative Snape trailing behind him, Harry noticed something. Something that he didn't notice before, as a matter of fact. That Snape, in his black Muggle shirt and dark grey slacks, was garnering a lot of favorable looks from women. But the thing was that every time, when the female eyes rested on Harry, they sighed and looked away.

That was what disturbed him. Was he—did he—does he have some weird sense of possessiveness hanging around him? All of the sudden Harry couldn't breathe. He wanted to hyperventilate. Snape—did he notice? God, if he had seen . . . no, Harry didn't want to think about that. Snape, and him. 

Damn, damn, damn. 

But luckily for him, Snape didn't seem to notice. He was too busy complaining. After eight stores and many bags on his arm, Harry was quite used to it.

"Here," said Harry, pushing open a door.

Snape looked at the store with skepticism. "Banana Republic" was placed very strategically across the storefront, and in the windows four headless mannequins posed, wearing tight shirts.

"No," he said emphatically. But Harry didn't seem to listen. At least, he was pushed inside the store, much against his own wishes.

The horror. Snape adjusted his eyes. Well, at least the lighting was somewhat like his dungeon's. But the contents! 

"May I help you, sirs?" said a woman wearing a ruffled blouse and a beige skirt. 

"No thank you. We're buying something for him."

"The men's section is that way."

"Potter, I assure you that I will refuse vehemently to buying _anything_ from this . . . charlatan of a store," Snape told him clearly.

"Oh, come on, Professor," said Harry. "We're just going to get you a nice shirt. I don't know _how_ you could wear those robes of yours during the summer . . . You need one. Seriously."

"I do not." It was meant to come out menacingly.

Harry looked at him. "All right. You let me get you a shirt, and I'll . . . we'll go back to the hotel. Or else it's five more stores."

Snape gritted his teeth. The boy's blackmailing skills were certainly getting better.

Finally, Harry marched into the fitting room armed with twelve different pieces of clothing—all shirts, of course, but all much cooler than a stuffy robe. Snape went inside the fitting room rather cautiously, as if expecting the ghost of Voldemort to pop up at any second.

"Isn't it time for you to come out?" Harry demanded after five minutes.

"I refuse to step into good light with this on."

"I won't laugh. I promise."

The door clicked.

Laughing was probably the furthest thing from Harry's mind as Snape stepped out. 

The man was dressed in one of the less dressy shirts that Harry picked out. It was rather a simple one, well-cut, with a row of buttons down the front. It wasn't black, but a white shirt that seemed loose and well-fitted at the same time. 

For once in his life, Snape looked neither imposing nor frightening. In fact, Harry had a very funny feeling in his stomach as he stared at the older man. The shirt outlined a thin but graceful body, and Snape had left the first two buttons undone, giving him a very good look at the smooth collarbones. 

"I suppose by the way you're gawking at me, it is not as ghastly as I imagined."

Snape had just paid him a very, very subtle compliment, but Harry failed to catch it. All he could do was tear his eyes away from Snape's torso and towards his face. "No," he said weakly. "It looks. Fine."

Snape raised an eyebrow. "Then I suppose I am obliged to buy this."

Harry's tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. All he could think about was that he's going to have a lot of trouble in Potions the day Snape wears _that_ to class.

They hailed a taxi to get back to hotel, as promised. Harry felt slightly dizzy. 

"What are we going to eat?" asked Snape as they walked into the Waldorf-Astoria.

Oh yeah. Food. Harry had been too busy figuring out that Snape had a body that he forgot his stomach. "Room service," he said quickly.

It was a rather nice meal. Neither said anything throughout it. Harry would look up occasionally to see Snape's hands move the silverware. That was the first time he'd ever noticed those fingers. When they weren't disemboweling frogs, they were quite . . . elegant.

It was quiet after dinner. Snape was studying a large and immensely boring text called _Essays on the Use of Herbology in Potions_. The last time Harry looked, he was on "Periculosus—Deadly Drug, or Wizard's Best Friend?"

Harry got the cot that night. He had never been so thankful for the extra bed as he was right then and there. Especially when Snape breezed into the bedroom, newly wet from his shower. The water had pushed his hair back, revealing a slim column of moonlight skin.

Snape looked at Harry for a minute, then climbed into his bed after taking something out of his pocket and placing it in a drawer. Potter seemed rather . . . distracted that day. His normally idiotic face had been more clueless than ever. But now he seemed to very absorbed in a book that looked familiar . . .

"Potter. What are you reading?"

"Your book, Professor."

It took Snape a moment to register this. When he did, he sneered. "My, Mr. Potter, aren't you turning into quite the academic. This is probably the first time you have ever showed concern for Potions."

"No, it's just this essay," Harry said, tapping the page. "This potion they mentioned—I think Voldemort used it on me. In the last battle."

"Wha—Let me see that."

Two hours later they were still at it. Snape had pulled out his parchment and scribbling down notes. He sent Harry to his briefcase for more books, which Harry assiduously retrieved. Harry cross-referenced various ingredients as Snape fervently did calculations (calculations? Potions required calculations?). 

It was one o'clock. "I think we need some tea," said Harry, exhausted. He made some hot water from the coffeemaker, and added tea leaves from the canister he brought. He brought two steaming cups into the bedroom. 

"I think I have it." One more cross-out. "Ah, just what I suspected. He used a variant of the Acries Alius Potion, with Adflictatio leaves. Interesting. No wizard had ever thought of doing that before. But then and again." A look at Harry. "No wizard was ever Voldemort."

"Acries Alius . . ."

"It is a mind-changing potion. The Adflictatio makes the change go in a more . . . negative direction."

That would explain it. 

"Would you turn off the lights, please?" asked Snape, putting away his quill and parchment.

He did, and he handed Snape the other steaming cup of tea. "Professor, you need this," said Harry.

"Thank you, Potter."

Their fingers brushed. What would have repulsed him weeks before now sent tingles down Harry's spine. And was he imagining it, or did Snape's breath just go a little faster . . .?

He looked at the older man. Snape's face was, as usual, shuttered. But for one tiny fraction of a second, it opened up, and Harry found himself looking into a pair of eyes that were not hateful, not inexpressive, but instead living glows of onyx. And that made his breath hitch and his heart throb. The eyes seemed to draw him in into its infinite depths. God, he wanted to drown in them . . . and he wondered . . . he wondered . . .

All of the sudden Harry was leaning forward. So, this was the end to all he had believed and knew. Warmth radiated off of Snape, beautiful warmth that welcomed him as he touched his lips to his. He _was_ drowning.

Snape's thin lips were immobile for a moment. Harry opened his mouth and pushed his tongue at his mouth, coaxing the warm, soft lips to open. They did. His tongue slid into Snape's mouth with delight, touching every nerve in that hot, wet cavern. Oh Merlin. Harry moaned as his tongue met another just like it, and before he knew it Snape's tongue was pushing against his own. Snape's tongue slid into his mouth easily, dueling with his muscle, licking and doing extraordinary things to his groin. 

Harry, without even realizing he was doing it, had moved onto the bed and then onto Snape's lap. That was when Snape chose to take Harry's tongue and suck on it. Harry moaned, fingers struggling to mash their bodies even closer together. Snape seemed to understand, because his legs parted. Harry fell into the space between them and for once, life seemed utterly perfect.

Somehow Snape's arm had wound around Harry's waist, just as his own hands had snaked into Snape's wet hair and was now massaging his skull. He groaned. His eyes rolled to the back of his head as Snape ran his hands up and down Harry's back, then moved down just a tad to touch every part of his arse.

It was incredible. There was no other way to describe it. Harry's arms compulsively unwound themselves and his hands are now touching every part of Snape he could get his hands on. It was lovely. Lovely.

And then it was gone.

Harry's eyes flew open at the loss of contact. He was gasping for air and trying to wrap his head around reality. When he realized that Snape had pulled away, Harry made a little whimpering noise and reached out again, but the older man gently pushed his arms down.

"Har—Potter. No. We can't do this."

Harry searched Snape's face desperately. Even in the moonlight Snape's cheeks were tinged with pink, lips swollen with the passion of their kiss. 

He licked his own lips, unconsciously. They felt dry and cold alone. "Wh—" His voice came out raspy and he tried again. "Why—why not?"

"We just can't." Snape's voice was unusually low and quiet. "You're my student. You're still in school."

Harry snorted. "After another month, I'll graduate."

"Good," said Snape. He was carefully disentangling himself. Damn that man! Harry felt like spaghetti. He could barely even resist as he was lightly moved onto the bed. 

"Good," repeated Snape again. "We could wait another month."

"But I don't want to! I want to . . . now."

"No, Harry. We have just made a very bad, very impulsive decision. It is wrong. We shouldn't . . ."

"S—P—" Just then Harry realized that he was at a loss at what to call him. "Damn you! The war against Voldemort is finished. We're not drawing up battle plans here! This isn't . . . this isn't a war, Professor."

"I never said it was."

"Then what's wrong with impetuous and impulsive?"

"Everything," said Snape, matter-of-factly. "We're not thinking enough. We're rushing ourselves into something that would end up being just a wrong, painful fling. We're not in a relationship."

"What if it's not?" Harry drew in his legs. "What if it's more than a fling? What if it was meant to be . . . something more?"

"If you're implying in any way that this might be the start of a passionate relationship, Harry, I must tell you that I have no such inclinations whatsoever," said Snape, dryly. "And what are you smiling about?"

"'Harry,'" he said softly, a grin lighting up his face. "You called me 'Harry.'"

If Snape was thunderstruck, he didn't show it. The shuttered face was back again. "So I did."

"S—P—" Harry sputtered to a stop again before pounding on the bed. "I don't even know what to call you!"

"I guess 'Professor' would be a little inappropriate in the current circumstance," Snape said, arching one eyebrow. "But it very well highlights the situation, doesn't it?"

Harry's fuse was definitely shortening. "Fuck you. I should have expected this. I should have known. You know what? You and I have just spent a week in New York City. Alone. And for once, I have been able to see you as who you really are. Or at least, I've seen the other part of you. And maybe I just thought that it meant something. Namely, that you are comfortable enough with me to show that side. We've spent seven years fighting The Bastard side-by-side, and I thought that sometime during those seven years, maybe we'd develop something . . . I don't know . . . something other than hatred, maybe? But no. I guess Professor Severus Snape is too good to consort with mere mortals like myself!" Harry paused his ranting for a breath. 

When he continued on, his voice was quieter. "I don't know. You said it was impulsive. It wasn't. It was really seven years in the making, just bottled up inside us. We never wanted that part of us to show through. But I thought that somewhere along this trip, we were able to admit to ourselves that we wanted each other. That seven years of being on the same side meant something. Developed something. And just now, we were able to tell each other that. And I got the best snog I've had in—forever. I thought that that would be enough to show you. But I guess not. Professor Snape is all rhyme and reason."

Harry flopped down on the bed. He wanted to cry. Either that, or scream and run and get very, very, very drunk. 

"Harry."

"Go away."

Snape moved to the cot. The silence in the room was audible. 

After a long while, Snape said, "Severus."

Harry stirred and peered at him over the darkness to see if the man had finally gone insane. "What?"

Softly, "You can call me Severus."

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I have activated my Yahoo! account, which means that you can now e-mail me at **marieblanche00@yahoo.com**. Feel free to e-mail me with any questions and comments. (Please do! I love opening my inbox! But don't send spam, that would just force me to get a new address.)

Lastly, yes, I have started writing a sequel to this. Am I being overconfident that people will actually read both stories? Perhaps. But seeing my track record for finishing stories, I might as well keep writing while I'm on a roll.

REMEMBER! Reviews = happy me. I love feedback. I love criticism. I love everybody who reviews. Reviewed the last chapter? Review this one! It might as well have sucked. Thanks!


	4. The world turns

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Notes:

No more NC-17 fanfiction on this site! Can you believe it? I am astounded. And no music groups. I used to be a big fan of those.

This is the finale to "New York, New York." As I wrote before, a sequel is in place, due to all of your support. See the postscript immediately following this story regarding the sequel.

I encourage all of you to review after you finish reading. Now that all of the authors have Review Alert (the diamond in the rough of restructuring, I suppose) reviews would become so much better.

Also, an important comment: If anyone would like a copy of my soon-to-be deleted NC-17 stories (particularly "The Marauder's Song"), feel free to contact me by e-mail. I would be glad to send one.

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****

New York, New York

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by Galae

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"And find I'm king of the hill

Top of the heap"

"What the hell are those?" Snape said, looking distastefully at the two cups of coffee that Harry bought from an American landmark—Starbucks. 

"Lattés. Have one."

Snape touched his cautiously, as if expecting it to turn into a dragon and bite him any given minute. He finally sipped it. "So, what horrific trip does our sainted headmaster have planned for us today?" Snape asked.

Harry still couldn't get around to calling him Severus. Out loud, that is. He rather liked hearing it in his head, though. "Um, Empire State. And the Metropolitan Museum of Art."

"Are those tourist places?"

"Very much so."

"If I do get trampled to death, which I very much expect, give Albus my deep hatred," said Snape.

"That would be a bad thing," Harry agreed. "But would that mean that I could skive off Potions for the rest of the year?"

To his immense surprise, Snape—um—smiled. Well, the corners of his lips curled up in a way that neither demeaning nor sneering. Harry was again reminded of what those lips felt like, opening up to his tongue. He looked away quickly.

"Strange, I thought that was what you and Weasley were planning to do anyways."

Ron. Oh, goodness, what would _he_ say, if he ever knew what went on between him and Snape last night? Thank God he was in Los Angeles. It took him a while to get back to Snape's remark. "Not really," Harry said truthfully. "You were beginning to grow on us. I mean, your comments weren't really that snarky anymore. At least, they still are, but we're really used to it. Because, you know, we've had a lot of, um, experience." Another raised eyebrow. "Okay, I'll shut up."

Silence. "You and Weasley did get more than your share, didn't you?" Snape said.

"What? I mean. Yeah. At least, you never picked on any of the other Houses as much as you picked on us. Like the Ravenclaws or the Hufflepuffs."

"Did it occur to you that not any of the other students had half the problem with paying attention as you and Weasley did?"

"But that didn't mean that we had to be your scapegoat!"

"And I suppose, Harry, that if I simply let you go, that all the other students would still maintain their fragile respect for me?" Snape asked, archly.

"Oh." He'd never thought of it that way. "Well. Then, I guess."

"You get away with murder, Harry, when I turn my back. I have never punished you for the firework in the Swelling Potion."

Harry gasped. "You _knew_ it was me?"

"Of course." Snape said. "How could I not, with you tapping your wand and flitting cautious looks at me when you thought I'm not looking?"

"Then why didn't you—"

"Harry, even you weren't stupid enough to do something like that just for fun," said Snape, rather distastefully. "I wanted to see what you were up to. It was clear after much of my ingredients were missing after class. Who did you do the Polyjuice Potion on?"

Harry had decided not to ask anymore questions. "Crabbe and Goyle," he mumbled. "We thought that Malfoy was the Heir of Slytherin."

Snape's lips curled again. This time Harry couldn't distinguish. "Of course. The elementary solution. I suppose Ms. Granger came up with the potion?"

"Yes. She was the only one clever enough to do it."

Snape was silent for a minute. "When you first came to Hogwarts, Harry, I thought that you would be someone tremendous. Oh, with Dumbledore hovering over your back, you did do certain things. But Dumbledore stresses life-and-death situations far too much. Life is not as clear as fighting basilisks and riding hippogriffs. It is not a clear line between good and evil most of the time." He sighed. The ice cubes in the lattés had completely melted, but Harry didn't care. He was watching Snape, whose eyebrows were knitted together as he figured out what he had been thinking for the last seven years.

"The ability to see a grey world is the most important of all," Snape continued. "It is much more important than killing Dark wizards, because that is the process by which stability wins over disturbance. In a school divided in two, I had believed that you would be clever enough to see that the fight is not only in blood and sword, but in _learning_. Granger knew it, but she hadn't your powers. You, who did, refused to believe it. You were a child, I suppose, and every child needs clear definitions. Everything was black and white, good or evil, to kill or not to kill. In a way your view of the world helped you, but without Granger and Weasley, you wouldn't have been able to go halfway. That is why I insisted on being hard on you. Harder than most of the Gryffindors. Because I knew you needed more." 

It was the most amazing thing. Even though Snape probably made no sense whatsoever to the average listener, Harry understood every single thing he said. Snape's mind was working at hyperspeed, and Harry followed him perfectly.

"Oh. I didn't know that."

"Probably not," Snape said with a certainty that was annoying. "But you learned. You grew up, and you learned, and that was how you defeated Voldemort. It was all about the process, Harry. Your little duel with the Darkest wizard of all time means nothing. All that you've done, up to that one climatic point—that was what is truly important."

"Then why didn't I—"

They never got to the Empire State Building that day. By the time they finished talking, they had lunch and went to see Monet.

~*~*~

__

"These little town blues

Are melting away

I'll make a brand new start of it

In old New York"

There was something wrong with that day, Harry thought as Snape hailed a taxi from Chinatown. The older man was becoming very deft at handling New York City.

Something wrong . . . He puzzled over it while they made their way back to the Waldorf-Astoria again. Harry got it. It was _nice_. 

It was not uncomfortable. Snape was not nasty. And they didn't go straight to sleep that night, either. Again, they talked until one, but it wasn't over a deadly potion.

This time, Harry didn't remember who initiated the kiss. All he knew was that one minute they were debating whether Dumbledore's protective or relaxed, the next minute he was staring into those endless eyes again, and then they were on the bed, gasping and moaning like there's no tomorrow.

It started out slower than the night before. This time it wasn't an outpouring of emotions that they were never aware of. It was a slow, steady exploration. An entire conversation was held while their tongues dueled and their hands traveled, touching, nipping, discovering. All of the sudden, Snape was everywhere around Harry. His skilled tongue was in his mouth, his fingers were rubbing against his hips, every inch of his body was pressed against his. Harry wrapped his legs around the older man's waist. He was getting hard. 

This time, he broke off the hot kiss and his mouth dragged downwards, licking a line down Snape's long, graceful throat. He then wrapped his mouth around the first button, undoing it, and then the next, and then the next. Snape's shirt fell open at the top and Harry greedily took in the white collarbones that had tempted him so in the fitting room. Harry smiled lasciviously, and, rejecting temptation, hunted over Snape's cloth-covered chest for his nipples. He found one, and like quicksilver lowered his mouth to suck on it. Snape gasped with surprise, then the sound turned into a groan. 

Harry definitely licked that reaction. He increased his suction until the nipple was a hard nub, then moved on to the other one. He probably ruined that shirt, but he didn't care.

"No."

It was a whisper inside a moan. But then Snape said it louder. "No."

Lust had drawn his teenaged brain into a puddle. He didn't process Snape's request until Snape took his hands and forced them away from him. Harry looked up, bewildered and flushed.

"Oh no. Not again," he murmured. "But I need you. I want you. Please."

"No. We can't."

Since when did Snape develop so many morals? Damn him! "Why not?" Harry asked, nearly bursting into tears with frustration. 

Snape cupped his chin with his hands and forced him to look at him. "Harry. I'm still your teacher. We can't do this. Not now, at least."

Harry quieted. His erection was still throbbing and needy. But too many emotions were cursing through him and it made his sexual arousement less. 

"I—" he cut himself off. "I don't know. Are we in a relationship now?" 

"Yes," said Snape, quietly.

"I love you."

"I love you too." It was a simple statement, spoken without restriction nor hesitation. Harry's heart flowed again.

"And we're in a serious relationship."

"Yes."

Harry turned onto his back, breathing heavily. Then huge, tremendous fear cursed through him. "I want you. So bad. Why don't you want me? Am I that disgusting?"

"No, no, no." All of the sudden Snape's face was close to his again, fingers on his chin. "You're beautiful. I—I want you too. But we can't do it now. I'm sorry."

"When can I ever have you?"

"When we know where we're going."

"How will we know?"

"Believe me," Snape said firmly. "We'll know. When the day comes. Please promise me you can wait."

"I can wait," Harry whispered, "Severus."

A few minutes later, Harry went to take a very long, very cold shower.

~*~*~

__

"If I can make it there

I'll make it anywhere"

"Gosh, three more days until we're out of here!" Harry exclaimed. "I can't believe it!"

"I can't wait," said Snape dryly.

Harry kissed him softly. "Admit it, you've had fun. At least, you've had fun with me."

"Dragging me to some of the most vile Muggle structures ever built?" Snape asked. "How will I ever live without the excitement."

"You like the Metropolitan Museum," Harry pointed out. 

"Well," said Snape, very reluctantly.

"Today we're heading for Times Square and Central Park," said Harry. "You can't leave New York without visiting those. C'mon. And wear your new shirt."

"Why?"

"Because I like seeing all the women google over you."

"They do not google," Snape sniffed.

"Yes they do. Now get dressed."

The women were no longer bothering Harry anymore, since he found out at Bloomingdale's that they all thought that he was Snape's son, not his . . . well. That had been a relief. He didn't really know how comfortable Snape was with the situation yet. 

It was at three o'clock in the afternoon when they sat down on a bench in Central Park. It was one of Snape's quiet days. He didn't say much. Just sat there and thought. 

But after five minutes, he said, "Harry."

"Yeah?" Harry murmured, nearly dozing off. 

"I want to show you something."

"What?"

Snape had reached into his pocket again, except this time he drew out the object and placed it in Harry's hand. It was the first time that Harry had seen the thing in its entirety. It was small, half the size of a Snitch, and it was circular in shape and about two centimeters thick. It was indeed silver, but rather bluish in color. It was obvious it was old. A family crest of kinds was carved upon the object, with an elaborate 'S' done in relief. 

Harry tapped it, it was hollow. He turned it around in his hand. Just as he expected, there was a tiny clasp on the right side. A box. He tried to force it open, but it wouldn't budge.

"It would only open to a word," drawled Snape.

Right. A password. Of course an old pureblood family heirloom would require a password. Harry tried the obvious ones first, of course. Snape. Slytherin. Severus.

"You've got the first letter right. The answer is right in front of your face."

Harry glared at him. He knew that Snape wouldn't tell him the password. He turned the box around. Should he speak in Parseltongue? No. Snape wasn't a Parseltongue. He twirled it in his hand, enjoying the way the light sparkled off of box, like a jewel.

Harry put it down. How stupid of him. The box was made to look like a jewel. "Sapphire," he said clearly, and the box popped open.

Inside there lay a ring. It was a woman's ring, carved so it looked like many threads of silver intertwined. There was a beautiful sapphire set on it. 

"That was the engagement ring of my great-great-great-great-grandmother." Snape said. "Her name was Claris Pendlemene. She married the family patriarch, Sapirden Snape."

"Oh," said Harry. "It's very pretty." He turned to give it back to Snape. But Snape shook his head and wrapped Harry's fingers around it.

"It's yours."

Harry felt dizzy again. Snape was given it to him. His great-great-(how many greats?)-grandmother's heirloom. A Snape family engagement ring. And he was giving it to him.

What does it mean? Was Snape—no. 

"Um," was all that came out.

"It's just a gift, Harry," Snape said. "To bind our . . . understanding."

Oh okay. It was that kind of gift. Harry was somewhat relieved. And somewhat disappointed. But he chose to be happy.

"Thank you," he said, beaming at Snape. "Thank you."

~*~*~

__

"It's up to you

New York, New York"

Last day.

They were leaving for London the next day. Harry looked at his watch. Six o'clock.

Snape had given him something very important. At the time, Harry felt some leaden feeling. He had no family treasures. He didn't even know his own grandmother's name, let alone his six-times-removed ancestor's. Of course, Snape would never demand anything back. But still.

"Are you ready?" Snape asked. Their plane leaves at eight in the morning. They were packing that night.

"Yeah, I guess," said Harry, looking at his jumbled suitcases, and then at his watch again. Six-ten. "Um, do you mind if I step out for a minute? I'm just going to catch a subway. I'll be back in half an hour?"

Snape looked at him.

"Relax. I'm seventeen. It's not very far."

"All right then," Snape said finally.

Harry flew out the door.

The JFK Airport was alive and buzzing. Harry smiled as he pushed his stuff through the conveyor belts, allowed the security guards to wave that metal-detector wand over him, and proceeded to his gate. Snape didn't smile. Of course. 

Merlin, had it really been two weeks? It seemed like forever. 

They boarded the plane at their scheduled time. Harry had the window seat. He looked out as the plane went down the runway, paused, and took off. 

Through the window, as the plane rose higher and higher, Harry watched as New York faced him in its entirety. It was a magical city. It was real, yes, but in some ways it was not. It was a city that just was beyond explanation. Capital of the world, indeed.

He silently said good-bye.

Then Harry turned to the man sitting next to him. "Severus," he said.

"Yes?"

"I have something." He took out the box that had been burning in his shirt pocket for so long. "Here. This is for you."

"For gods' sakes—just because I gave you something—" Snape looked at the box.

"No. I really want you to have it. It's not, like, an obligation. Here." He practically shoved it into the other man's hands.

"Your Gryffindor ring?" Snape said in disbelief.

"On a chain. So you can wear around your neck instead of having all your students think that you're betraying your House," Harry explained quickly. "I got a chain for your box, too." 

There was a pause. "I'm not sure what I should say."

"Thank you?" Harry suggested.

"No." Snape said. Instead, he lifted up his drink with long, tapered fingers. "Understanding?"

They clinked their plastic cups and drank.

"Now," said Snape, looking at his cup in fascination, "what is this vile solution?"

~*~*~

__

"These little town blues

Oh, will be away

I'm gonna make a brand new start of it"

"Harry!" squealed Hermione. "You're back! Oh my God! How was New York?"

"Fantastic!" Harry enthused. "How was Montréal?"

"It was so incredibly beautiful. I mean, I had no idea that it was so great. All the French people were very nice, not like some of the Beauxbatons people. Ron! How was Los Angeles?"

"Yeah! How was it?" Harry asked his friend.

"I think," Ron said solemnly, "that I was _made_ to live in the States. I'm seriously going to move there when I'm old enough. But how was New York for you?"

"We saw a lot of stuff." Harry said.

"How was Snape?" Hermione asked. "Did he kill anybody? Did he try to kill you?"

"Yes. No." Harry thought for a minute. "I mean, he did try to curse a couple of Muggles, but nothing more than that. We found out a lot of stuff about each other on the trip. I guess you can say we're more . . . understanding now."

Ron wrinkled his nose. "What did you possibly find out about Snape? That he likes to kill centaurs and use their hooves for potions?"

"No—although Voldemort did use that in the Acries Alius potion. No, it's not that. He's actually human, Ron, and . . ." Harry failed to finish. He'll tell them about that. Later.

Meanwhile, he turned to the teacher's table. Snape was staring at him, face stony as usual. But this time, he saw his eyes smile.

__

"And if I can make it there

I'm gonna make it anywhere

It's up to you

New York, New York.

New York . . ."

****

Good night!

___________________________________________________________________________

SAME NAME BIT—

Snape's first name, Severus, is actually the same as the one of a Roman emperor, Severus Septimus (I think Septimus means seventh, but maybe that's just my French kicking in). He lived from 146 to 211 and was famous for his military campaigns. According to the Columbia Encyclopedia, "In 208 Severus went to Britain. From there he harassed Scotland, but he died at York before completing his plans for a large invasion." And guess what Severus's middle name is. Lucius. Coincidence? I think not.

What happens after the British Invasion? "England" is the sequel to "New York, New York." 

P.S.

Because of FanFiction.net's new policy regarding NC-17 stories, I am no longer able to post "England" in its entirety. Thus, I am planning to post an edited copy on this site and the complete version on another archive, probably _Ink Stained Fingers_ or something of the sort. I had planned on submitting to _Walking the Plank_, but unfortunately, they rejected "New York, New York" due to sappiness, domestic bliss and improper grammar. I will keep you updated on the archives I do post in. (Meanwhile, I need a beta reader!)


End file.
